Dies Irae The Day Of Wrath
by Shrike
Summary: DONE! If the first impression is what counts, no surprise these two ended up hating each other’s guts. Hwoarang and Jin’s first encounter, from Hwo’s POV. Tekken players will recognize authentic moves. Lang, violence
1. intro

I don't own any of the original NAMCO characters (duh!), etc. etc.  
  
Sorry for the constant reposting guys. I received a nag about my last title and summary so to make everybody happy (and quiet) here's the same thing, only in new wrapping. Hope nobody gets paranoid and possessive over this one :). Enjoy. . .

DIES IRAE  
  
(The Day Of Wrath)  
  
Chapter 1  
  
Loud footsteps and clinging of chains around his neck announced young man's arrival even before he reached the vacant stockyard. The night was fresh and silent here, its slightly inhospitable atmosphere calmed by rhythmical dance of the sea and distant city lights. The man rushed on, knowing his way around dark corners very well. Faint sounds of music were already audible, calling, making him forget heaviness of his boots and rush on. Although this was hardly the place where one would like to attract unwanted attention, the man ignored all the dangerous noise he was making. He had very important news to share.  
  
After reaching a huge opening in one of empty hangars that once served as an entrance for trucks, the young man halted for a second, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness inside. He could clearly hear music underlined by screaming guitars, but it was still hard to make out more than just silhouettes of several people in the vast room.  
  
"Boss!" – the young man exclaimed, trying to be heard over strong basses that made metal walls of the hangar vibrate. Unsure if anyone had heard him at all, he started forward, squinting in vain effort to find that particularly colored head amid the group before him.  
  
"Boss! I ran into some foreigners in town!" After a long and uneventful pause, the youth continued with noticeable lack of former enthusiasm. "They, some Japanese guys, seemed to be the type looking for trouble, so I asked them, just like you told me, if they would be interested in some REAL gambling. They kinda just nodded but I think they guessed the meaning. . . " Words, drowned by loud music, got no response and the non-reaction melted his confidence with each passing second. Another pause. "A-anyway, they're on their way here so someone should go and meet them. . . I mean, if you think it's worth the trouble that is. . . They did agree to pay cash and ask no questions, so. . ."Being totally ignored, he practically whined out the last weak word: "Boss?"  
  
In response the music volume went to zero in a second. The young man shifted with unhidden excitement; for once he managed to get everybody's attention. This might be his big break, a chance for a better position in the gang. Maybe he'll finally prove useful to the pack and won't have to serve as a plain scout all the time. Maybe even...  
  
"So, did they look rich?" – an even voice impatiently interrupted his stream of thoughts, turning the youth's head towards a sitting figure. Eager to please his leader, the young man smiled, not even noticing suppressed snickers coming from all around.  
  
"Yes, yes!" – he nodded emphatically. "I checked out all the details like you taught me to! Expensive watches and suits, drinks they ordered, tips they left. . . and as for the private ship they arrived with. . ."  
  
"A private ship!?" – the voice coming from darkness repeated in disbelief, revealing some emotion. Judging by several surprised gasps coming from all over the room, he was not the only one in there showing growing interest for the news. The youth, happy to finally see the man he was talking to, dumbly nodded once more like a thrilled puppy.  
  
"Are you telling me . . ." – voice of the leader again regained its former coolness - "that there's a bunch of rich strangers with their own private joy-yacht in town, looking tough and showing off, careless if they lose a large sum of money gambling, but at the same time are still dumb enough to be lured to this suspicious looking dock in the middle of the night and fight somebody they've never even met!?"  
  
Suddenly, the following silence seemed louder than rock n' roll music that played a moment before. Unsure how to react but feeling at least a dozen pairs of eyes staring at him, judging, waiting, the young man managed to put on a nervous smile and give a slightest nod, almost invisible in the darkness. The leader, a slender but well muscled young man, sitting on a chair with his back turned and both legs resting on table, moved his hand from volume control button of a stereo lying next to his boots and slammed his palm loudly against his knee, laughing out joyfully and tossing backwards his long reddish hair.  
  
"There's one born every minute! Well done."  
  
Wave of unison laughter filled the vast space of hangar, fueled by tickling anticipation while the confused scout just looked around in optimistic disbelief. His worth has finally been recognized!  
  
"You all know what to do!" – the young leader shouted out with a grin. "Give me a minute to prepare, you guys clean up that space there between those boxes and somebody turn some lights on. The show is about to start!"  
  
His words were followed by approving exclamations and sudden general commotion. No matter how many times the gang saw it and even participated in it, every new little game of deceit was promising more and more fun and profit. 'Easy money' they called it because all they really had to do was stand by, watch and collect the prize afterwards. Their leader, Hwoarang, took care of all the serious business anyway. He always did, without exception.  
  
Hwoarang, now with only a faint smile on handsome face, slowly slid legs, one by one, off the table surface, deliberately cutting though surrounding laughter and chatter with loud thumps of his boots. His big moment, when he would shine like the brightest of stars in eyes of both his comrades and opponents was nearing once more. He stretched, feeling blood pumping faster through his system and smiled even wider; in couple of minutes his body, trained for a single purpose, would see some action again. Though he would rather die than show it, Hwoarang could barely sit still knowing his challenger was just outside, waiting for the duel to begin. He glanced through opening in the wall, concentrating, vainly trying to make out clouds or stars or anything through thick smog hanging in the skies. The only thing to see were lights coming from vibrant never-sleeping city, killing graceful dignity of the night with their unnatural glow. The red- haired man absently ran fingers through his long locks, watching the distant electric lights like a child of nature would affectionately gaze at stars. This was his town, his territory. Here everyone knew who he was. His biggest concern wasn't serious challengers anymore, but the lack of naïve fools that served as a rich source of money. Naïve fools! Hwoarang's dark green eyes glazed over in a rush of adrenaline and, until now, smooth lines of his face showed almost feral expression. With gaze still lost somewhere in distance, he whispered quietly:  
  
"Losers. . . just another bunch of pathetic losers."  
  
A small hand appeared from darkness to rest on his trapezius muscle that was rockhard sprung between his neck and shoulder. In spite of the growing clamor in the room, warning eyes of a girl sitting on the desktop showed she didn't miss his remark. It was Saen; the skinny girl with bleached out, spiky hair, suicidal love for fast machines and discreet tinkling sound of metal from all the bracelets, necklaces and rings she wore that unmistakably announced her presence like other women would be recognized by a cloud of their specific perfume. She gave the young scout, who still stood amid now hectic crowd with a dumb expression like he's seen a holy cow, a fleeting glance before turning back to Hwoarang.  
  
"Do you trust his estimation?"  
  
He looked up to meet her concerned gaze, with a softer face but not without his specific, mischievous smirk and snorted.  
  
"You heard him; rich fools playing cowboys. Like we haven't seen it a million times before."  
  
Saen slightly tilted head to side, not really agreeing not really disagreeing – a gesture she knew would irritate Hwoarang immensely. But knowing this was not the time for playing mind games, instead of waiting for his impatient reaction, she hastily concluded: "Yes, but this is different. He said these people are from Japan. What if it's the. . . "  
  
"Yakuza!?" – Hwoarang jumped up with raised eyebrows and a wide smile that revealed white rows of strong teeth, almost knocking over the chair and the table Saen was sitting on. His loud laughter, untamed and form the heart, echoed between steel metal walls as he pulled thin gloves from a back pocket of his worn-out jeans.  
  
"Don't be paranoid! Yakuza are seasoned crooks themselves; they'd know right away what was this bogus betting about." – he smirked again, but added quietly - "At least don't start spreading silly ideas around." Hwoarang started pulling the black gloves on while casting furtive glances at other youths in the room, making sure everyone was busy and no one was listening to them. He knew very well his kind of lifestyle meant facing many risks, but if you took no risks, you'll eventually end up losing everything anyway. For Hwoarang that was simply not an option, so he dryly concluded: "We don't want any panic and we certainly don't want to ruin the show just because our men chickened out in fear of some phantom you invented."  
  
Saen opened mouth to protest but Hwoarang stopped fiddling with his gloves and looked sternly at her, non-negotiable determination growling in his hushed voice: "You're really not helping me here, I need to concentrate. This will be a simple job, just like the ones before and afterwards we'll go out, hit the town, have a good time and forget all about this Japanese wannabe streetfighter, ok?"  
  
The girl stared at him for a second longer before her expression changed and she smiled, her whole face lighting up. "Sure thing babe! I KNOW you'll kick his ass and then we're going to sit on your bike and visit some luxurious place in the fancy part of town, order expensive cocktails and make all those snobbish stuck-up heads turn wherever we pass!" – she exclaimed for everyone to hear, instantly turning into a little girl with huge eyes and gargantuan wishes. Hwoarang smiled and silently nodded, once again amazed by her transformation. She jumped off the table with metallic clinking following her every move and wrapped herself around his neck, giving him a quick but fierce kiss with fruit chewing gum still in mouth. "My man! Ok, I'll leave you now to get ready for the fight" – she chuckled, playfully banging her fragile fist against his tense chest – "and I'll check to see if the arena is set properly. You know how those guys are, always leaving cigarette butts around and we can't have that, no, no." Saen rolled eyes and shook head in quasi-irritation before popping a chewing gum bubble. "You just prep yourself in peace babe, ok?" She winked and flashed a smile before turning and practically jumping away like a careless lamb.  
  
Hwoarang mechanically adjusted the gloves on his hands for tighter fit, making the black leather sqeech as he thoughtfully examined Saen's departing figure. Yeah right; some lamb. More likely a wolf in sheep's clothing. She was a small, malnourished, homeless girl when he first met her, living on the streets and sleeping wherever she could find a free place, always surviving on the thin line between life and death. He never inquired about her past, fearing that for once she might actually decide to be completely honest and open for a change, and gods only knew what skeletons she might drag out of the dark hole that was her past. This way, what he didn't know couldn't hurt him. Hwoarang didn't let her join the gang out of pity though; far from it. Saen was a natural born survivor, she made herself necessary. Even the gig they were about to pull tonight, like so many times before, was a product of her sharp, scheming mind. He often wondered if she slept with him just because he bought her trinkets and provided the money. Saen was more than capable of feigning affection. Even though she wasn't starved or cold any more, the damage had already been done and scars on her soul deep; Saen had been deprived of, not only necessities, but so many little things people take for granted for most of her life that even now she still couldn't ignore the greedy, insatiable voice whispering in her ear, demanding more and more of everything. It was something like a personal devil nested on her shoulder, something she simply couldn't escape from – he followed everywhere she went, conditioning her actions. Hwoarang recalled so many occasions when Saen resembled more a calculated animal than a civilized human being; a clever and dangerous weasel, prepared to do anything for her goals. Certainly not the kind you'd like to corner.  
  
Hwoarang wasn't sure why he stuck with her for so long; most probably due to his inclination to bad habits. He knew for sure he didn't love her. What lured him to her bed in the first place was the very reason why he had to constantly keep an eye on her moves; she was unpredictable and ready to break any rule to get what she wanted. And you never knew with her; one day she might decide she wanted your head on a silver plate. Saen was so much like himself, only with one big difference – Hwoarang lived this way simply to have fun, without any serious damage to anyone, while Saen. . . Saen was a completely different story. She was always playing for real.  
  
"She just can't be trusted" – he concluded to himself for the hundredth time, turning attention to his protective high boots, made to make blows slide off the smooth surface, giving him plenty of room for maneuvering and, last but not least, were perfect for delivering sledgehammer blows. He slammed the hard heels against bare concrete floor several times to make sure they fitted right, then checked if they were tightly bound to belt on each hip. Satisfied, the young man took off his motorist jacket with recognizable burning skull imprinted in the raw leather on the back; a design identical to the one on his motorcycle. In this town, it served as his signature and one thing was for sure; with that logo his bike was untouchable without any safety-alarms, even in the loneliest backstreets.  
  
Standing only in tight, sleeveless shirt that allowed outlines of his toned muscles to nicely show, he ran both hands through his long hair, pulling it behind and then tying it into a small but tight tail. Now he was almost ready. He punched and kicked air in several quick and fluid sequences, trying out different blows and blocks only to assure himself he was well prepared. Daily training with Baek Doo San, his mentor, every time proved worthwhile the sweat, blood and tears he had shed during the exhausting practice sessions.  
  
Hwoarang had to smile at the thought of his teacher. He knew he was fortunate to be taken under the wing of such a great fighter and learn all he knew about the lethal beauty of Tae Kwan Do, even though the older man openly frowned at Hwoarang's restless way of life. 'You can't be a rock n' roll loving, trouble chasing street punk on a bike all your life. You have to find your purpose' – he once said and the red-haired boy just waved it off with a smirk. The two had many things they disagreed upon but Hwoarang felt his mentor loved him like a son underneath all that rough and patronizing appearance of his. Baek Doo San was the only person Hwoarang truly cared about, as he had done far more for the young man than his biological father ever did. He was his teacher, his friend, his family, his beacon.  
  
"One day I'll repay you old man." – he inwardly vowed, feeling deep warmth in chest. "One day I'll make you proud." The young man closed eyes, concentrating on the fight that lied ahead.  
  
Hwoarang heard approaching voices from outside, the sounds in perfect timing with the anticipation amid his comrades reaching its boiling point.. Although he couldn't understand what's been said, he unmistakably recognized harsh tones of the Japanese language, when spoken by men. All eyes in the room were immediately set on him, waiting for his orders. Among them he clearly saw Saen's dark pair, shining from semi-darkness with their characteristic, enigmatic glitter that just couldn't be read. When she noticed he was looking in her direction, she automatically winked and grinned instantly, once more bizarrely reminding Hwoarang of some toothy animal in the tricky lamplight of the hangar. The last thing he wanted was to enter the ring with burdening thoughts of that kind in mind, so he turned away without reaction and sought for the young scout that lured those strangers here.  
  
"What are you waiting for!? Go, get them!" – he barked out and sharply jerked head towards the voices, after he made an eye-contact with the eager- to-please youth. The boy jumped and sprinted out like he was struck by a lightning, stretching Hwoarang's lips into a lazy smile. 'If only everyone else was so reliable. . .' – he thought, giving Saen a fleeting, unnoticed glance under brow and then turning to meet the group of men in inconspicuous, black suits that just walked in.  
  
- - - - - - -  
  
OK, now I seriously want to hear YOUR opinion cos there's no point in writing on if nobody's reading. So please, review. Thanks ;) 


	2. who dares?

Just a few words in advance. In this chapter I refer to the historic reality of the early 20th century in Korea (occupied by Japan) and to the contemporary feelings ppl of that country have towards the Japanese (quote: "The Korean hate the Japanese and the Japanese don't like the Korean"). Not all of them, but generally speaking. I don't hate the Japanese (or any other nation for that matter) so this text has absolutely no intention of insulting them or anybody else. As for Hwoarang, I figured it would be like him to act the way he did here (he DID join the army later, so there has to be a patriotic spark in him, with all the negative and positive connotations, ne?). Ummmm, I think that's it. Enjoy :)

Chapter 2  
  
The group of ten men entered the hangar, each with a face void of all emotion; they didn't look scared, but didn't seem eager or overly-confident either. What they displayed to the audience of rough-looking youths was just the old, notorious mask of Japanese polite indifference. Hwoarang slightly frowned: he liked his prey to be as much off-guard as possible. Not that he ever had trouble tackling any opponent – he just didn't want to be carelessly caught in the same trap he was setting.  
  
Facing the impenetrable wall of their cold stares, the red-haired youth didn't feel intimidation, only content swelling in his chest. 'The bloody Japs!' – he thought darkly – 'Just wait. . . Soon I'll take back a tiny piece of what you stole from us!' Though he deeply admired their restless pursuit of perfection and their skills as fighters, the homeland of his neighbors still served as a synonym for occupation, loss of the Korean national identity, enforcement of the Japanese language in schools, violence and poverty. In a word – the enemy.  
  
The young fighter deeply inhaled in order to keep his cool for a little bit longer. He just couldn't wait to start repaying some old, impersonal debts (as he felt personally obliged to), but knew he shouldn't let his temper get the best of him either. Especially in a possibly lucrative situation like this one. 'Man, I bet back home they're rolling in yens. . . ' he thought, looking over the expensive clothing, the flashy jewelry the men wore. Though hotheaded, Hwoarang couldn't help making this remark to himself, instinctively evaluating the status of the men standing before him.  
  
The scout who brought the visitors here was frantically waving his hands around and gesticulating, doing his best to explain the rules of betting to them. The very opposite were the Japanese men, who listened in silence to the enthusiastic youth and his bad English, their faces showing faint but unmistakable superiority. Hwoarang noticed this and clenched his fists in a renewed stab of anger. 'Still acting like royalty, are ya!?' - he almost hissed out.  
  
From the corner of his eye, he noticed Saen's head turn towards him in concern. She knew what kind of reaction to expect from the bawdy fighter, but, although he was sometimes dangerously trigger-happy, his role was essential in the game they were now playing. Still, there was no way she would let him destroy HER plan just because of some so-called grudges he seemed to enjoy creating.  
  
"Not yet" – she soundlessly mouthed with a pleading face, seeing he was looking at her. Saen prayed he'd listen and start fighting for real soon, just so this entire farce could end as soon as possible. Violence in dirty stockyards was really not her thing One day she'd save enough money to forever leave this stinky place and its people with no future and go live in a decent neighborhood where nobody knew her, without ever looking back. But until that day came, she intended to keep on spending Hwoarang's money and wearing out his fists with an equally merciless tempo. She sweetly smiled after seeing his tensed shoulders relax a bit and discreetly sent him a soft kiss across the room. Once again the fragile girl congratulated herself; with his fighting skills and her moneymaking plans, a bright future was already guaranteed. Hers, of course. Her luckiest break ever was meeting Hwoarang and that was all the luck in life she needed. Saen had recognized his value right away. He was her golden opportunity to finally start living a decent life, a ladder out of the snake pit. It was a piece of cake for the silver-tongued she-devil to direct him towards this 'profitable streetfighting' career in spite of that boring, nosy mentor of his. Saen couldn't hear Baek Doo San's name without a frown; she literally couldn't stand the man! When around him she was always polite and addressed Hwoarang's teacher only with the greatest respect of which she had, in reality, zero. Of course, the little weasel was far too clever to show what truly went on in her calculated mind. 'Everyone has a bitter pill to swallow' – she always repeated to herself after seeing Hwoarang suffer injuries in duels, thus shrugging off any feeling of guilt. Her burden was just as hard to bear. So what if Baek's feelings and pride suffer a bit? What if Hwoarang had couple of bruises, even a broken finger or a fractured rib from time to time? So what if she had to be everything but herself around these men? In the end, everybody would profit and all thanks to her.  
  
'Yes' - she inwardly concluded – 'my plan is perfect and you, my dear 'babe', are going to make us both very, VERY rich.' Saen flashed another encouraging smile in Hwoarang's direction before going over the Japanese men and taking the matter in her own hands. After all, from her experience, that has always been the best way of getting things done properly. The clumsy young man was more than happy to see Saen joining him. By tacit agreement of the group, she was considered the second in command, serving as Hwoarang's right hand. And when it came to communicating she was unquestionably the number one, by far the best spokesman among them.  
  
"Konbanwa" – she shyly greeted the Japanese men with a deep bow, making some of them show traces of surprise on otherwise stone-cold faces. Saen didn't care who they were or was her conduct morally justified; she simply and instinctively accommodated. Japanese was not her native language and she didn't speak it well, but had decided to give it everything she got to make this work out. She didn't care if they paid in yens, dollars or whatever, as long as they paid cash.  
  
"We are honored to have you here as guests, dear gentlemen." – she continued in slow and quiet voice, slightly bowing head again and again while speaking just like a modest, well raised Japanese woman would. "We apologize for the humble. . . "  
  
"We have no time for courtesy!" one of the men, who had recovered from his initial shock, cut her off harshly - "What are the rules?" However Saen wasn't thrown off balance at all. She just sweetly smiled and continued in the same humble tone, appreciating their straight-to-the-point spirit. Empty etiquette really was just a waste of time and everyone already knew very well why were they here.  
  
"Of course." – Saen's smile was still there, sweeter than honey – "One of yours fights one of ours. It's a one round, ten-minute match, no time-outs. The loser is the one who gets knocked out or is too injured to fight on. The opponents fight without weapons, but any style goes. Possible differences in weight, height, age and skill don't matter so be careful how you choose your representative, dear gentlemen." She paused to politely smile again and, without blinking, continued reciting the simple rules of a ruthless sport: "Bets can be made during the entire match, but only to raise the stakes, not lower or withdraw them. As for the amount of money you can bet on or its currency – there are no limitations. And finally; if a fighter gets seriously injured or unfortunately dies, we leave it at that. No retributions, no police. As if it never happened. Wakarimashitaka?" She finished with the bright smile of a harmless little girl, but with a stern gaze unyieldingly fixed on the closest of the newcomers. The man simply nodded and turned to his comrades. The conditions were clear and simple, explained in the 'take it or leave it' manner and the other side accepted the terms of agreement. The game was on.  
  
Followed by the confused scout, Saen returned to her gang, grinning from ear to ear. All the youths were already more than eager to see some action and by the promising look on her face, their wishes would soon come true. Business and pleasure at the same time – could it get any better than that?  
  
"Guys. . ." – she half-whispered so the foreigners who possibly understood Korean couldn't hear her – "Good news: they're in. I think they're discussing the money and the horse for this race right now." She glanced across the room at the group of men in black suits and back, many of her comrades mechanically following the gesture.  
  
"I wonder which one is going to fight the boss?" – one of them rhetorically remarked, examining the other group.  
  
"Bah, like it matters! The boss is going of beat the crap out of them so hard, they'll be swimming home with their tails between their legs!" – another youth belligerently added. The entire gang laughed, sharpening their animosity even more. Hwoarang listened with a smug grin on face, pleased to see the general morale was so high. Besides, this way they appeared like a bunch of noisy wannabes to the Japs and that was exactly the impression Hwoarang wanted to make. He and Saen exchanged knowing glances: so far, so good.  
  
"Looks like they've picked out that... boy?" – a whispered comment from one of his comrades drew Hwoarang's attention. He looked over, trying to see his opponent. What struck him as peculiar was the lack of similar, clattery noise from the Japanese group. No conversations, no discussions – nothing. All they did was help the youngest member of their group to prepare for the fight. Hwoarang frowned and looked at Saen again, sensing something strange about their conduct. They sure didn't act like a bunch of Japanese tourists with too much boldness for their own good. And, another weird thing; while all of them were men in their thirties, the guy they chose looked only half their age. Was there a possibility they planned this in advance?  
  
Saen at first confirmed Hwoarang's unease; she was looking at the mysterious group with a worried expression on face, but when she eventually turned to him she just smiled and slightly shook head. Her message was clear: there was nothing fishy about this after all. Hwoarang sighed in relief and stretched. He had accused her of inventing phantoms and now he was the one acting paranoid. The red-haired man smirked, enjoying the fluid movements of his athletic body and forgetting about everything else. Everything, but the burning wish to add yet another trophy to his collection of victories.  
  
Saen observed Hwoarang's routinely warm-up for awhile, allowing herself to finally drop the fake smile. He seemed impatient and ready to go, like a dog of war waiting to be unleashed and, to Saen's relief, suspecting nothing. Her vigilant gaze then turned to the young Japanese fighter who just took off his tidily ironed shirt, exposing the rippling muscles beneath. The brow of her smooth face knotted into a dark frown, revealing her ever growing concern. Hwoarang's opponent had the posture of a confident, trained fighter and definitely didn't look like just another rich kid who wanted to 'live on the edge'. Quite the opposite – to Saen's shock he started his own warm-up routine, flexing powerful muscles and automatically going through series of punches and kicks, making it all look effortless and easy. A feeling of dread, ominous and impossible to ignore, nested somewhere deep in the girl's stomach. She survived by trusting her instincts and now all she sensed was a bad, bad feeling of something being very strange about the mysterious young challenger.  
  
However, the fight was about to begin and there was no way back now.-------------

Thanks for reading everybody and a special 'arigatou gozaimasu' for Eeri san ;)


	3. let the battle commence

CHAPTER 3  
  
In the Japanese group no feelings of anticipation were either shown or felt. The dark-haired youth preparing for the fight was given boots which he mechanically started to put on without a word. Contradictory to their ages and appearance, all men acted as if the boy was the boss among them. Nobody dared to look him straight in the eyes and there was a lot of bowing wherever he turned his head.  
  
"Jin-sama..." – one of the men with gray streaks in otherwise coal-black hair bowed, reluctantly addressing the youth – "... your grandfather's ship is due to leave for Japan in less than half an hour. I implore you to reconsider once again. We've already been through every dojo and martial arts school in this country and this town and have found nothing. Nobody from the new generation of true warriors, nobody possessing the great fighting spirit was born here... this place holds no interests for us."  
  
Jin turned to his advisor and was immediately facing the bowing head of the older man. He half-smiled, absently flickering his black hair back from his forehead – "It still doesn't hurt to try. And you've heard the girl; the whole fight lasts max 10 minutes. There'll be plenty of time to catch the ship."  
  
The younger man took massive red boxing gloves, serviceably handed to him by another bowing helper in a suit, before turning to the old advisor again and continuing in a more serious tone: "Besides, something tells me we're in the right place." Jin's dark-brown eyes, together with the older man's pair, turned towards the Korean group and the slim, but obviously hard- trained boy preparing for the match amid them.  
  
"What, that little red-headed rooster?" – the old man bewilderedly commented, forgetting about his station for a moment. All this time he was under the impression that his young master was just planning to have a laugh on the account of these sewer punks, and nothing could have shocked him more than the realization that Jin had more serious intentions in mind. Of course, none of them dared to object when he decided to follow the clumsy messenger-boy to this hole, although no one understood their master's true motives. Jin was not the kind to be looking for that kind of fun, or ANY kind of fun for that matter. Since he started living with his grandfather, all the young man did all day long was practice, practice, practice in burning desire to avenge his mother's brutal death. Unlike Heihachi, Jin was kind, friendly and smiled a lot, but still never laughed or socialized and silently kept to himself most of the time. From that perspective, the old advisor was in fact glad to finally see a spark of the childhood the boy was prematurely and abruptly robbed of awaken inside him. And now, it turned out Jin's mind was, as always, turned to some practical purpose. Still, the older man just couldn't believe what he just heard: "You are going to fight him for real, my lord?"  
  
"Hai." – Jin sharply nodded, lacing on the first glow. Noticing the old man's gaze was still in disbelief fixed on the Korean fighter, he added gravely: "Don't be fooled by his looks. I sense there's more to him than meets the eye."  
  
The advisor flinched and turned to his master, bowing deeply: "Of course Jin-sama, of course. I humbly apologize for questioning your decisions. Please, have a good fight and once again prove the supremacy of the true Japanese fighting spirit..."  
  
"THE fighting spirit." – Jin corrected with a frown, fastening the second glove on. "The chosen ones are the chosen ones, no matter where or when they were born. We are the protectors of this one world and we all should be united in our mission against... against..." – his voice deepened and virulent hate suddenly gleamed in dark eyes - "... butchering monsters." He clenched the fist that was just in front of his face so hard the old man could have sworn he heard the ligaments and bones in it scream in protest.  
  
"Yes, my lord" – the advisor bowed deeply again, keeping his eyes on the floor – "May the fighting spirit lead you into victory, and may your mother's watching spirit protect you from injuries."  
  
The mentioning of Jun softened the cruel expression in Jin's eyes. "She's always with me," he whispered, letting the big, glowed hand slowly fall by his side, limp and harmless. Then he cleared throat and bowed to the old man, adding more loudly – "Hai, arigatou! Ganbarimasu! (I'll do my best!)"  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
Saen, watching across the room, bit her lip convinced they had walked into a trap. She glanced at Hwoarang who was oblivious to everything but his mantra, obviously preparing to collect yet another easy victory. She approached him, unsure what to say, if anything at all. However, before she could even open her mouth, Hwoarang beat her to it: "Let's get this party started. Go over there and tell the Japs I'm ready."  
  
Saen nervously nodded, hesitant to speak about what was troubling her. Instead, she absently listened to her partner's instructions: "Take whatever they're giving. We've got enough money to cover whatever they've got to offer... not that we'll need to." He snickered, brimming with self- confidence and Saen managed to force on a weak smile. Hwoarang gave the Japanese fighter a fleeting look, making a calculation in his head: "I'll let him "hit" me... umm.. say, three times. Then go over there and inconspicuously propose to raise the stakes. After that..." – he smilingly winked at the girl - "... it will all be just history repeating itself."  
  
She nodded again, knowing well what he meant. Over the years Hwoarang had specialized in avoiding blows so well that he not only managed to block or dock them, but had learned to realistically simulate he's been struck. All it took was to move a few centimeters to the left or right, up or down and let the opponent's fist brush your skin just a little bit. Enough to make the other side think they've really got the upper hand, and not serious enough to cause any real damage to the red-haired fighter. After couple of so-called hits, the growing confidence and bravado usually got the best of Hwoarang's unsuspecting opponents, making them raise the stakes. Of course, they were all mightily surprised when a clumsy street-punk transformed into a precise fighting machine. Needless to say, none of them returned to challenge him again after fleeing the stockyard with Hwoarang's laugher ringing in their aching heads and their money in his hands.  
  
Saen lingered for a moment, debating with herself what to do. Hwoarang, noticing the strange behavior, tilted head to side and examined her expression, a question clear in his eyes. The girl suddenly smiled and turned on heel to leave, but not before she exclaimed a clear: "You betcha!" that echoed from wall to wall. Hwoarang shook head, puzzled, and sighed under his breath: "What the hell is wrong with her today?"  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
The thin girl approached just as Jin was rising from his bow. He gave her a polite smile and she managed only to weakly smile back; the picture she saw across the room was still too vivid in her mind. Though she couldn't hear what he was talking about a minute ago, she could have sworn that for a millisecond there she caught a glimpse through the doors of pure hell in his dark orbs. Who that boy was, or what was his life story – she couldn't even begin to guess that, but heavens only knew what must have happened to him to ignite that kind of hate. Or maybe nothing had to happen at all, maybe that's just the way he was inside, and that was the option that sounded even more terrifying. Looking at him now, Saen could see no trace of anger or hostility - quite the opposite; his smile was disarming. Still, her instincts screamed, cautioning her not to mess with this enigmatic stranger.  
  
She automatically recited out Hwoarang's message, glad the foreigner understood English. She wasn't sure she'd be apt to stutter a word in Japanese anymore, not with all the warning voices swarming inside her head. When she mentioned the matter of money, one of the men in suits stepped forward, reached into his breast pocked and pulled out a thick stack of dollar bills. Without counting or even looking at them, he practically threw the bundle into Saen's face and stepped back. Normally, she'd start to feel the familiar warmth around her heart at the sight of so much money in her hands, but under the circumstances she hardly noticed the green bills at all. Instead, her eyes were fixed on wide, sledge-hammer fists and bulging muscles of the young Japanese fighter, brutally standing out in sharp contrast to his handsome, smiling face. Saen muttered a word or two of thanks, turned and strode back, right to where Hwoarang was waiting.  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
His eyes went wide at the sight of the money she was carrying, as his mouth stretched in a smug grin of approval. He was reaching for it even as Saen was still two steps away, but the girl, instead of the money presented him with a pair of wide, worried eyes.  
  
"Don't fight him." – she whispered so quietly Hwoarang at first thought he had misheard her words.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Don't, just don't. Fuck the money."  
  
Hwoarang's mouth went agape. To hear Saen say something like that and with a ton of money already itching in her hands!? He looked over her shoulder, reckoning something must have happened while she was talking to the Japs, but everything appeared to be the same as it was two minutes ago. Hwoarang's gaze again turned to her with a growing concern.  
  
"Saen..." – he lightly put hands on her slender shoulders trying to calm her down, but the girl's eyes, dark and deep, remained nevertheless determinedly fixed on his. "What's the matter with you? Look at that guy. Do you think I'd let him beat me?" He tried laughing it off, but Saen's expression stayed unchanged.  
  
"Don't fight tonight" – words coming out of her mouth were quiet but clear, spoken with the best and most frank intention Saen ever had. Ironically, instead of turning Hwoarang away from the match, her pleads were just making him more and more impatient and angry. Deciding she must be PMSing or something, Hwoarang lost his patience and was unwilling to listen to any more of her propheting crap.  
  
He smiled and stroked her hair then cheek as if she were a little child. Then he cupped the fragile chin of his lover between his forefinger and thumb, and tilted her head a bit, admiring the thin neck. "Come on Sugar, be a good girl" – he whispered, tracing one finger down to her collarbone and playing with numerous necklaces there for a moment. "This won't take long and then I promise to buy you something pretty." He singled out one particular piece of jewelry and held it up a bit on the tip of his finger – "Maybe something to match this one... what do you say?" The words were deep, soft and sticky, like honey for Saen's ears.  
  
Against all caution and sane reason, the girl's eyes glittered over with that specific shine and Hwoarang knew he had won. She reluctantly smiled and he smiled back, congratulating himself. Then he practically picked her up and moved her thin figure out of his way, clearing the path towards his challenger. He had another battle to win, the REAL one.  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
Stepping into the cone of light shed by a low wattage bulb suspended somewhere high above his head, the black haired youth extended his hand: "Boku no na wa..."  
  
"I don't need to know your name." – Hwoarang nonchalantly interrupted with a contemptuous smirk, while he lazily cracked the fingers of his left, then his right fist. The Japanese fighter studied Hwoarang's face and posture for a second longer before the corners of his lips slightly curved upwards and he gave the Korean a solemn bow of respect nevertheless. Hwoarang's eyebrows raised a bit in surprise, but he was far from feeling any sort of shame for his unnecessary rudeness. After all, this guy was not a guest in his house and he sure as hell wasn't planning on playing a warm host. Instead he quickly measured up his opponent. The Japanese appeared calm, firm and was only a bit taller, but had far more muscle weight on him. Broad shoulders, strong neck and wide upper torso signified dangerously destructive fist and elbow blows. That kind of power combined with his long arms could bring a quick demise to those who underestimated the black- haired boy just because of his age. Hwoarang, however, wasn't too worried about this: although lighter and more athletic, he had a complete confidence in his legendary agility and nimbleness. He knew more muscles meant more ballast, and more ballast meant less speed. However, the Korean was no fool: he made a mental note to himself to keep out of reach of that pair of menacing, knock-out fists. Good thing Hwoarang's strongest weapons were his long legs; strong, fast, accurate and merciless, like two perfectly synchronized birds of prey. Many hotheads in the past had fallen down, out cold, before even seeing the hard sole of his boot lash out towards their heads.  
  
Seeing the Japanese fighter rise from a bow, Hwoarang muttered - "Whatever" - and took a defensive stance. His opponent did likewise, rising red-glowed fists if front his face. Two seconds passed without anything happening. Than three more. Hwoarang saw the Japanese had no intention of being the first one to attack and he almost rolled eyes in annoyance. If he hadn't promised to give the Jap the first three blows...  
  
To make things quicker, the Korean made a move as if he was going to hit with his left hand and stepped forward, but still very cautious not to get too close to the malevolent looking pair of fists. To his surprise, the black-haired boy suddenly lunged forward with unexpected speed, his left fist hitting the air just in front of Hwoarang's face as the Korean hastily retreated. Hwoarang clearly saw every stitch in the worn out leather of the glow in its flight only centimeters from his eyes. Just as he thought the first offensive was over and that the Japanese will have to stop to gather strength from throwing two mighty punches in such a rapid succession, the right red-glowed fist appeared out of nowhere, fast as a cannonball and equally heavy.  
  
Hwoarang more felt than heard a sickening wet noise as the projectile connected with his nose and his right hand automatically went up, clutching the sore place. He swayed for a moment or two before his legs buckled and he hit the floor heavily, falling on his knees and the other palm. This was followed by loud cheers of encouragement by every member of his gang, including Saen, who inwardly counted, already imagining what kind of jewelry she'll get this time: "One down, two more to go." The Japanese group remained cold and silent as before, their faces unreadable.  
  
One by one the cheers died out, ominously leaving behind just a disappearing echo in its reverberating flight from one wall to another. Between Hwoarang's fingers, still clasped over his face, blood started to well up and then plummet down in tiny, bright red drops to the concrete pavement that never knew real rain.  
  
Commotion and disbelieving, panicky whispers spread among the Korean gang. Most of them were looking at Saen, demanding some explanation, a reassurance, anything. The girl, however, was just staring at Hwoarang's broken figure, petrified and too shocked to breathe, with the expression of utter helplessness and terror. Her worst nightmares had come true.  
  
While the world around him wavered, Hwoarang blinked to clear his blurred vision as he strove to ignore the jagged, probing pain. He removed his hand and right before his eyes spread the palm covered in his own blood, but he could still breathe through the aching nose. Apparently he had managed to avoid the full force of the blow; had it hit him square in the face he was sure he'd be sleeping by now. The red-haired youth darkly raised his gaze to meet with his opponent's. The Japanese was just standing there at ease, maybe even with a look of concern on his face, waiting for the Korean to rise up. If he still could, that is.  
  
Hwoarang frowned, wiped the still trickling blood from under his nose with the back of his hand, then sharply inhaled through his teeth and spat out some saliva mixed with blood to the floor. He wiped the gory palm on his jeans and got up slowly; not because he was still groggy but because he wanted to eye his opponent very thoroughly this time. The black haired boy shortly nodded in understanding: the Korean was fit and willing to continue, and took a couple of steps back, resuming his original position.  
  
Ignoring everyone else in the room, Hwoarang's glare and anger fixed on the opponent before him. He forgot all about the money and the swindler gig and Saen and the three blows he had promised to take. Right now there were only him and his challenger in the room, no, in the world, and there was far more at stake than just a pile of dollar bills. Hwoarang turned sideways, rising his right foot so high the knee was almost at the level with his shoulder. Without giving his opponent any time to take the defensive stance, he attacked, delivering series of restless high kicks right where the other fighter's head was.  
  
Or was supposed to be.  
  
After five or six consecutive blows, each with a certain KO delivery had it landed right, Hwoarang halted in disbelief. He had been hitting air! With the right leg still in air and its knee bent, he leaned forward to see his opponent finish multiple backward rolls, just out of Hwoarang boot's reach. The red-haired fighter screamed in frustration, jumped to his right leg and raised the left one changing the stance and was just about to begin a similar attack when the Japanese suddenly rolled forward and swept Hwoarang's feet beneath him.  
  
The Korean crashed hard, but the black-haired youth was already two steps away before the other even touched the ground. Unhurt, apart from his wounded pride, Hwoarang instantly jumped to his feet and shouted out in blind rage, careless of the crowd around: "WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU!?"  
  
The Japanese challenger faintly smiled, careful not to appear too arrogant, and bowed, introducing himself: "Kazama, Jin Kazama desu. Hajimemashite (nice to meet you)." 


	4. eat my fists!

CHAPTER 4

For a second Hwoarang was utterly speechless with rage, glaring at Jin like he wanted to burn the Japanese down to ashes just by looking at him. After what seemed an eternity, the red-haired youth stood up from his tense half-crouching stance and slowly put on a humorless smile.

"You're going down, Kazama." – he pointed a forefinger at him, emphasizing the iron undertones of his promise.

The Japanese fighter faintly smiled, appearing not overly impressed by the boy before him, or his threat. Hwoarang, who was used to be taken seriously, felt a renewed stab of anger at Jin's non-reaction and jumped forward, his left boot in air and leading the way.

Jin saw the blow coming and merely side-stepped without even raising his forearms for a defensive position and, thus, erring. Hwoarang's foot, after it went flying past the Japanese's face, swiftly and still in the same fluid motion swung backwards, hitting Jin on the back of the head and taking him clean off his feet. Uttering a surprised cry, the dark-haired boy went flying to the floor and only a reflex move to shoot his palms forward saved his face from being scraped against the concrete pavement. Above him Hwoarang bared teeth in a grin that would have better suited a rabid wolf than such a young man. The burning feeling of shame inside his heart could be washed away only with his opponent's blood.

"Your own sweet mother won't recognize you after I..."

He never finished the sentence. As if someone had hit a switch inside him, the Japanese boy spun about on the floor, jumped to his feet and launched himself as a projectile towards the laughing Korean. Hwoarang's face immediately lost any trace of a smile as he prepared to block a new series of punches he knew would follow. His forearms were fixed in front of his face in a second, like a stone wall protecting his slightly bent head, while his legs spread so the hammering force didn't knock him off balance.

Instead of going all the way through his headlong lurch forward, Jin suddenly slowed down, crouched, side-stepped and delivered a bone shattering uppercut directly to Hwoarang's exposed and unguarded chin. The Korean only had time to register a glimpse of Jin's muscled shoulders, not in front of him but at his side, before the world around him suddenly blurred. The red-haired fighter blacked-out for a couple of seconds and the temporary short-circuit had saved him the feeling of having his back violently smashed against the floor. One moment he was stunned by Jin's magical appearance and the next he was lying sprawled on the concrete, rubbing his aching jaw. He was fortunate his own teeth hadn't hacked his tongue in half when they'd violently connected, driven to a clash by the force of Jin's muscles. The Japanese's threatening frame towered him, the large fists clenched and trembling with anger. Though stunned and shocked by the vehemence of the blow and, even more, by his own carelessness, Hwoarang had to smirk at the sight: though tough and hard as a piece of granite, the guy above just looked like a big, sulking kid. To Hwoarang, who had no real family ties and who never knew the life-giving warmth of mother's gentle hands, the scene appeared hilarious.

The Korean just couldn't resist to poke his challenger a bit, in spite of his current inferior position: - "Uh, looks like we've got a mamma's boy here." – he half-snickered with a taunting tone, though his jaw hurt like hell from forcing the lips to move.

Jin, his face a grimace of rage and mouth open to say something, made an irritated step forward, causing Hwoarang to flinch, one foot already in the air and ready to deliver a protective low kick if the Japanese came too close. However, the dark-haired boy halted and, with an obvious effort, managed to unknot his brow and visibly relax. Though young, he was already experienced enough to know he'd be fighting a lost battle if he couldn't control his anger.

Instead, he slowly beckoned, giving the Korean enough room to safely get back to his feet. Hwoarang did just that, feeling completely superior again; there was no way in hell some Japanese sissy could pose any threat to him, and on his own turf on top of that! So he raised his pair of black-gloved fists up between his face and his opponent, jumping readily on tips of his toes and in his element again, despite the pain that corkscrewed in his skull. Hwoarang's jaw has been tested in countless streetfights over the years and the boy had learned to ignore the warning alerts his body's been signaling through jittering nerves. He knew the pain was your enemy only if you allowed it to be. His mentor, Baek, had been clear on that: no pain, no gain.

"Ikuyo! (let's go)" – Jin said dryly, darkly eyeing his opponent. Hwoarang's lips curved in a smile and he nodded, indicating he understood.

"Are you sure? There's no mommy to help you here." – the Korean taunted on, raising the sunken morale of his gang that promptly responded with muffled laughs and whistles. Through slicks of jet black hair that hung over his eyes, Jin glared at Hwoarang for a moment longer before leaping high and forward, one booted leg lashing out. He didn't go for a direct hit, but spun vehemently about turning into a deadly human propeller. Hwoarang ducked the first swing, then jumped over Jin's leg as it came around one more time. The last sweep was stopped by the Korean's forearms, landing only centimeters from his face, with the force that made the bones of both fighters shake in their joints.

For one dreadful second Hwoarang though both of his arms were broken; he could almost hear them snap in unison like twigs. The red-haired streetfighter would carry black and purple imprints of Jin's boots on forearms for weeks after that. He staggered backwards a bit, still in disbelief, striving to calm his rubbery, shaking legs. He had never heard of anyone performing something like this. If he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, he wouldn't have believed it was possible at all. But not only the Japanese's technique was superb; the dark-haired boy put almost a superhuman strength in his blows, as Hwoarang had painfully witnessed. Nothing about this stranger was to be taken lightly.

Still stunned, the red-haired youth lowered hands and met Jin's thundercloud gaze. The Japanese had one of those polite smiles on, a mask of courtesy his country was notorious for, but his eyes weren't smiling at all.

"You need a lesson in manners" – with almost a kind tone to it he pronounced, like he was offering help, just before he reached forward for Hwoarang's hand and clutched it in a relentless, iron grip. "For example - bowing. I recommend some practice there." – Jin continued with an unwavering smile, like he was in front of a class of small children, teaching them the basics.

"Son of a ..." – Hwoarang blinked, vainly trying to get his hand free from the red-gloved snare. Jin's right leg came up, swooshing like a giant wing towards the back of Hwoarang's head, hitting right where the skull connected to the spine. The Korean lurched forward in some sort of a grotesque bow, but didn't land face-first because Jin's hand still hadn't let go.

"AND in keeping your mouth shot" – Jin continued in the same patient tone, making the entire procedure look simple and effortless. Ignoring Hwoarang's helpless wriggling, the Japanese, without letting his striking foot touch the ground, repeated the movement, only backwards and across Hwoarang's face, returning the leg into its original position. He performed the dismal dance with a graceful deftness and a lightning speed. Only when the red head went whiplashing backwards, did Jin unlock his fingers and let his opponent finally drop to the ground. It took less than ten seconds for the Korean to find himself defenselessly lying on his back. Again.

To Hwoarang, who could feel his bleeding lips swell fast, this repetitive scenario didn't seem funny anymore.

Across the room the Japanese men were impassively observing the duel, seeming just as inanimate as empty wooden boxes surrounding them. Somewhere in the audience, Saen's face paled even more. She spasmodically clutched the bundle she held with both hands and helplessly whimpered when Hwoarang's body struck the pavement with a loud thud. Instead of money, she felt as if she was embracing a tangled bundle of poisonous snakes. The situation has gotten out of control and the girl didn't have the courage to turn around and face the perplexed and panicked looks of her comrades. All she could do is pray for a miracle. She didn't care if Hwoarang won or lost any more. She prayed he didn't get killed. With him, all her dreams would die too.

The fragile girl shuddered at the thought.

On the floor, Hwoarang rose to his hands and knees, still feeling the hot, metallic taste of his own blood in his mouth. He didn't look at the stranger who came out nowhere to shake his world beyond recognition; he already knew he'd remember that face for the rest of his life. The Korean tensed every muscle in his body and catapulted himself forward, blindly charging with his head down like a raging bull.

"Two can play that game," he growled through gritted teeth.

Jin made a dodging move to the right, taught by the swelling bump on the back of his head how fast and dangerous Hwoarang's left foot could be. However, the Korean made no effort to lift a limb; instead he slammed, head first, into Jin's chest, knocking him roughly to the ground. He grinned at the sharp sound above his head that was Jin's shocked breath being forced out of his lungs by the force of the blow.

Hwoarang didn't stop there.

Taking advantage of his adversary's temporary defenselessness, he kneeled above him and locked his thighs around Jin's hips to prevent the dark-haired boy from kicking. Then, looming above his opponent, Hwoarang paused a second to revel in sight: Jin's half-dozed eyes were looking up athim as the Japanese was fighting for breath, a feeling of shocked realization sweeping across his face.

Hwoarang smirked and lightly nodded in affirmation: oh yes, you really are down and defenseless and we both know what happens next. The handsome, smiling face then suddenly metamorphosed into a monstrous grimace of rage unleashed. He swung his right arm backwards as far as he could and brought it down hard to the right side of Jin's face, then fluidly, using the momentum, mirrored the strike with his left one. Every punch was followed by a dull thud of Jin's skull being slammed against the concrete floor, and each one only fueled Hwoarang's destructiveness more and more.

Hwoarang didn't stop until his fists had connected with flesh six times, and he would have continued on had he thestrength. With his heart wildly pounding in surge of adrenaline and due to a lack of breath, the red-haired boy eased himself up and took a couple of slow steps back. Blood that dropped from his gloves marked his retreating path on the floor. As far as he was concerned, this fight was over. No one could receive that many direct punches and leave the ring walking.

No one.

----------------

Thank you for R&R :)


	5. rivals

There's a little scene from this chapter I doodled up and you can find it (along with a ton of tekken fanart by yours truly) on fanart-cenrtal under Shrike.

Carol – So ka, anata wa kono sutori ga suki desu? Ureshii! Arigatou gozaimasu tomodachi:)

M – da, sada sam i ja preletila do sada napisao. PriliÄ 


End file.
